


Oh how I wish we could have an ending.

by Leiazher (Earlephant)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, Attempted love confessions, Domestic, F/M, Female Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Male Aziraphale (Good Omens), Male Crowley, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Nightmares, Revelations, Writing letters because you can't deal with your demon BF taking a nap, angst/attempted comfort, man-shaped disasters, oh well, they're not very good at this, what is communication? they don't know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:34:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27174604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earlephant/pseuds/Leiazher
Summary: Beginnings come easy, they can happen when you're not even looking. Endings? Not so much.A collection of unfinished WIPs for Good Omens, one wip per chapter, and they would all have been one-shots, so there's nothing grand lost in writers-block, but still... One day I'll have something full to post.First chapter contains summaries for the others! (As well as a short description of how it would have ended, or what is missing.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 1
Collections: Good Intentions: Abandoned and Unfinished WIPs





	1. Summaries

**Chapter One:** "I swear I've seen you like this before"

Aziraphale meets Crowley 26 years after an explosive argument about their relationship. They go to the book shop and _should_ have worked it out and kissed and made up, if I had continued writing it. Just imagine a happy ending and a sappy love confession and some emotional body worship. (Aziraphale POV)

**Chapter Two:** "By any other name"

Crowley has been pondering for quite a while (about six thousand years, actually) about who he was before the fall. He finally finds out with the help of some alcohol and his angel's voice. Would have ended with some conflicted feelings from Crowley's side, and some loving and doting support from Aziraphale. (Crowley POV)

**Chapter Three:** "Domestic"

(Oh yes, working titles...) An early morning in the South Downs, some disoriented stumbling trying to get out of bed, cuddles, and a promise of coffee. This one is pure fluff for once, and should have ended with a reminder of how much they love each other while greeting the new day on the front porch. (Crowley POV)

  
**Chapter Four:** "Coveting"

  
Aziraphale indulges in some me-time before going to meet Crowley, lots of imagination and fondling and pining. Would have ended on a bittersweet note about Crowley attempting a kiss, Aziraphale turning away to pretend like nothing, and promising himself that one day he'll be brave enough, one day they'll be free, and on that day, he'll tell Crowley just how much he loves him. (Aziraphale POV)

**Chapter Five:** "Stark Raving Mad"

Crowley digs up some courage to go confess his unending love, manages with some dramatics and a confused cup of tea, the smut _starts_ , but I didn't finish writing it, I DID write the end though, which I think is rather sweet, but it's missing a huge chunk in the middle. (Crowley POV)

**Chapter Six:** "Show a little tenderness"

Crowley accidentally confesses his love. Angst heavy and self-loathing, while Aziraphale is trying to get Crowley to look at him and tell him he loves him too... but... yeah. Should have ended with some cuddling and Aziraphale listing every single little thing that has ever made him love Crowley, to Crowleys mounting mortification (It takes a few days.) (Crowley POV)

**Chapter Seven:** "Overgrown"

Some introspection, drunken idéas, longing eye-contact, and internal ramblings. This would have been a look into post-apocalypse doubt and a very grand love confession, as well as Crowley's trouble sleeping, lots of cuddles and soothing when the nightmares come. It would have ended happily with some flashes of their life in The South Downs. (Crowley POV)

**Chapter Eight:** "The Devil's whispers in your ears"

Crowley has a Nightmare, capital N. He's hearing the Devil describe some icky things, it's pretty grim. This would have ended with him going to Aziraphale, making sure he's alive and well, give him a kiss on the lips, and invite him out for lunch. No talking about nightmares, but just a sweet slice of how Crowley already knows Aziraphale loves him and won't need any confirmation, but that if the angel were to tell him, he'd return the favor. (Crowley POV)

**Chapter Nine:** "Nightmare White"

Aziraphale's turn to have a nightmare, about Gabriel, punishment, and falling. This one is very short, but it would have turned into a drinking session where Aziraphale is drunkenly ranting about how he doesn't care if he falls, as long as he can be with Crowley, and oh, he hadn't ever confessed his love, had hed? Oh well, nothing for it, now the Dear knows, very well, time for a sloppy kiss to the lips of a very dumbstruck Crowley. Some raging from his part about how heaven doesn't have shit on Aziraphale and how he's the best and if he falls Crowley will drag down heaven and destroy every last one of them. Aziraphale shushes him and tells him to stop being dramatic, and they'll cross that bridge when they get to it. For now, let's sober up and kiss some more. (Aziraphale POV)

**Chapter Ten:** "A collection of Letters from A.Z Fell to "C" "

A museum has gotten a hold of Aziraphale's "love-letters" written to Crowley during the century-nap. This contains the letters, some speculations on index cards from the archivists, and would have ended with a coup to steal them back, which Crowley would (mortifyingly) come to get him out of, getting a hold of the letters in the process and oh no, that wasn't how Aziraphale wanted Crowley to find out. Well... What to do? What to do is to get drunk, reminisce, and laugh so hard about the archivist speculation that a painful mouthful of wine will be snorted out onto an unfortunate love-confession.


	2. I swear I've seen you like this before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale meets Crowley 26 years after an explosive argument about their relationship. They go to the book shop and should have worked it out and kissed and made up, if I had continued writing it. Just imagine a happy ending and a sappy love confession and some emotional body worship. (Aziraphale POV)

Her cheeks are too soft this time, her face too round and her smile too ready, her nose too straight and small.  
It doesn't fit. 

He remembers her angles, her ribs as she's heaving for breath, her sharp hips where he left his kisses and love to be visible for her for days to come. He remembers her long hair, braided to the side as she bent over another plant, caressing another leaf while whispering threats.

It's unmistakably her, her eyes are still yellow, but lean more to the side of gold in the dim light, her cheekbones too soft, her chin doesn't jut out, her lips too full.

He misses her, he misses him. The ways he's seen her before.

It's not right this time. 

He looks, and he waits for her to notice him as she laughs at some inane joke one of the patrons of the bar has just told her. He knows she can take care of herself, the stilettos still sharp, her legs still strong, her hands still able to grip and hold on tight.

She's not even looking at him, but he knows her. He knows her body language, and she's not happy, she's hunched and uncomfortable. She's bothered, she's angry.

He wonders idly if he should intervene, but knows it wouldn't please her in the slightest. Maybe asking for forgiveness is better than asking for permission this time. He wants her to look at him, and only him, the way she's done before.   
She should at least notice he's there, notice his aura permeating the bar.

And maybe she does know, maybe she just doesn't care. 

The way they parted ways the last time still stings, his heart still aches, and maybe hers does too. 

Aziraphale takes a measured sip of his drink, and wonders. Should he go over? Tap her too smooth shoulder and ask her to come home with him? Should he be the one to save her for once?

Why had she chosen this shape? Why now?

He drains the rest of his too bitter drink and moves away from the bar, stepping toward her with wavering confidence. Maybe she really doesn't want to see him, maybe she's still bitter about their last parting. Maybe she's out trying to enjoy herself and the man next to her has put a damper on the mood, maybe she's drowning some sort of sorrow?

And why isn't she wearing her sunglasses?

Aziraphale stops short a few steps away from her. Why are her eyes unshielded for the world to see?

Maybe it isn't her after all?

She chooses that moment to look back at her drink, and by the stiffening of her frame Aziraphale knows she's spotted him.  
For a moment he thinks she's going to get up and leave, but after a short moment of deliberation, she looks back at the burly man and whispers something inaudible. The man frowns, puffs out his chest and stands up from his hunch, he's tall and imposing, but he's nothing compared to her.

She stands up, her stilettos making a tapping sound against the sticky floor, and she's as tall as he is. She snarls, then turns right around and walks the few steps toward Aziraphale.

"Let's go, Angel." Is all she says in greeting.

Aziraphale realizes his mouth is open, and closes it with a click. He follows her out as her form ripples and reshapes itself to something he's more familiar with.

The sharpness of her returns, her saunter back in her legs, her hips moving tantalizingly under the beautiful black dress. Her back on beautiful display thanks to the dip in the dress, closing dangerously close to her buttocks. It isn't covering much, and it looks beautiful on her. She looks ethereal.

Aziraphale's mouth is dry as he remembers their last parting. The unbridled fury of her, the beauty in her dangerous claws and teeth as she cursed and hissed at him. He thinks for a short moment that his slack mouth and adoring eyes may not have been the best counterargument.

He wishes things had gone differently. He hasn't seen her for decades, and rightly so, he had clearly been in the wrong. He had deserved the silent treatment, the call tone whenever he tried her number.   
That knowledge sours something in his stomach and mouth, a stark reminder of their differences and their fears. He had been wrong that time. 

It wasn't an easy pill to swallow.

He jogs up to her side to keep up with her furious steps and waits with bated breath for the moment she's going to slam him against the brick wall and pick their argument up as if it had never stopped.

But she doesn't, she keeps walking, her dress clinging to her legs with the momentum. Aziraphale starts panting a bit to keep up, and through habit and nothing else, she slows down.

"I'm not happy with you." She says, and he knows the words are carefully chosen. He knows the tenderness in her voice is because she missed him. 

She needn't have done so, they always gravitate back to each other. Always. Then again, he's missed her too.

"I can imagine so." He mumbles, he's ashamed of their last meeting, he should have listened, he should have soothed her, he should have closed his mouth and his eyes and taken a measured breath to assuage her fears.

He didn't. And he's faced the consequences for twenty six years.

Aziraphale is surprised when their steps take them past the Bentley, parked only a block away from the bookshop, he beats himself up over it and thinks he should have noticed it on the way to the bar.  
But in his defense, he had been quite taken with his thoughts and regrets.

He had spent every day mourning Crowley's absence. She had made a home around Aziraphale, she had opened her anxieties up to him, she had been vulnerable, she had torn her own walls down to let him in. And he had squandered it, he hadn't known the herculean effort it had taken her to be honest, and allow herself to be kind without beating herself up about it.

One night, and he had thrown it all away.

They enter the bookshop without another word, but as soon as they're inside and the door is closed she rounds on him, reignited fury in her eyes.

"Are you going to tell me again, Angel? Are you going to ask me to leave? Are you going to smirk and smile and chuckle?" Her tone is low and dangerous, and Aziraphale looks away.

"No, Crowley." His cheeks color in shame, he can't look at her like this, he doesn't feel like he's allowed.

"So what are you going to do? Stand there and ignore me again? Or will you listen to what I have to say, for once in your life?!" She spits and snarls, and he feels tears welling up in his eyes. 

"I'm sorry, I-"

"Too little, way too fucking late, isn't it, Aziraphale?" His name on her tongue is poisonous and barbed, he flinches at the sound.

"I... Yes... I suppose it is." He takes a deep breath, and looks up at her again, she's beautiful, she's always beautiful, but he won't be distracted by it this time. "But I really am sorry. I was wrong, I was very, very wrong, and I have regretted it every day."

She looks confused, anger falling away from her face for just a moment, then it returns tenfold.   
"So it takes my absence for you to get your fucking shit together?" It's all hiss and spit, a harsh whisper, as if a raised voice will take his apology away, make him retrace his steps and deny everything outright.  
"It takes me leaving you, leaving you, for you to understand?"

He contemplates it for a moment, then heaves a heavy sigh: "Yes, yes I suppose it does."

"Unbelievable." She throws her hands up in the air and shakes her head, the bookshop light casting a halo around her head.

Aziraphale doesn't reply, he doesn't know what to say, he doesn't know how to even begin to say how sorry he is, how deeply wrong he had been. She picks up on it, and walks further in to the bookshop without a word.   
He follows.

She's sitting on the couch in the back room, removing her shoes and gently massaging her feet, black scales glinting in the light. He's kissed those scales. Worshiped them and lavished them with love.  
He thought it had been enough, he thought it had been good enough to show his love. 

What she thought of as fucking, he had thought of as making love. And he thought it had been enough.

How could he have thought that? He beats himself up over it now, he feels like a monster, he feels like he's taken advantage of her.

"Tell me, Angel." She demands. She's insecure, but also decisive, he can see it in the set of her shoulders, she's ready to leave at a seconds notice. "Tell me what made you understand."

He stands slightly behind her, unsure if she want's to look him in the eye


	3. By any other name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has been pondering for quite a while (about six thousand years, actually) about who he was before the fall. He finally finds out with the help of some alcohol and his angel's voice. Would have ended with some conflicted feelings from Crowley's side, and some loving and doting support from Aziraphale. (Crowley POV)

He had another name once. He couldn't remember what it was, but sometimes it was whispered in his dreams. Just a hint of sound, just _almost_ there for him to recollect.   
It always disappeared when he woke up, it hung in the split second between sleep and wakefulness, fading faster the harder he tried to remember.

It used to niggle in the back of his head after those dreams, like an itch he couldn't scratch, like something screaming at him from a distance, telling him: _"Please, I'm right here, remember me, please remember me."_

He couldn't.

He had tried countless of times, meditating, dozing off again, drinking himself stupid, thinking that maybe the memory would be clearer when the world was numbed from his senses.  
He tried to remember as he watched the stars, as if his name was hidden in the constellations, a clue he had left for himself before he fell. He had searched every inch of the sky for just a _hint_. 

He tried to remember as he caressed the leaves of his plants, as if their shivering tapped in to a secret frequency that'd clue him in. 

He tried to listen for it in his Angel's voice when he got maudlin, when he was deep in the drink and his words became more and more incoherent until he decided to sober up and settle down with a book, those moments in-between words that wasn't quite silence, but not exactly sound either.

He often wondered if Aziraphale had known him before. He had never brought it up, scared to know the answer. What if they had known each other? What if Crowley had forgotten him, too?   
He didn't know if he could live in a world where that was a reality, he couldn't fathom _ever_ forgetting his angel. 

And he could only imagine the pain in Aziraphale's eyes if that were the case. He'd look at him with a sad smile, trying to prompt him to remember through poorly hidden hints and coaxing. 

No, the Angel could never have kept a secret that big. He was a bastard sometimes, but he would never lie about that, not even a lie by omission. 

So he tried on his own, never giving away what he was thinking about in the small hours of the morning, never letting on what he was searching for, and had been searching for for six thousand years.

He had fallen, his identity had been stripped away from him piece by piece, but he could remember the stars. He could remember tendrils of himself reaching out, the infinity of himself, shaping each atom and reaction carefully, he could remember the vastness and enormity of empty space, he could remember shimmering at the edges of his form when each new star was born.   
And those memories, the memories and moments spent in a timeless nothingness were teasing at the edges of his mind.   
They were calling for him to remember, they were saying that if he only tried hard enough, that if he only searched deep enough and long enough, he'd find it.

And he wanted to. Oh how he wanted to.  
He wanted the epiphany of his own name rolling off his tongue for the first time since the fall, he wanted to know the vowels and consonants and memorize their shape on his tongue. He wanted to sprint to his angel and scream it from the top of his lungs for all the world to hear.

He wanted to say: _"Here I am! See me, I remember! I remember my name, and it is-"_ That thought always ended on a static whisper, a tantalizing edge of an ancient voice. He couldn't recall whose voice it was, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was the last time his name was spoken to him.

Ever since the world failed to end, the niggling hint of a memory had gotten stronger. It burned on his tongue every time he woke up, every time he took a breath, it was in every sip of wine or water.   
What before had been a fascinating puzzle to try to solve in the empty spaces of daily life, had become an urgent and pressing absence. 

It was as if his mind was building up to it, preparing him for a sound he hadn't heard in millennia, rearranging thoughts and memories to make space for something new, something ancient, something important.

He had begun biting on the tip of his tongue as soon as he wasn't speaking or drinking, searching for his name in the taste of his own blood. The wounds healed over and over again, and he bit new ones over and over again, trying to trigger some sort of muscle memory, but it isn't often one says their own name, and the last time he had said it he probably hadn't even _had_ a tongue.

He flinched as one of his incisors punctured a new area of his tongue, and the blood spilled out over his teeth. Aziraphale looked up from his book with raised eyebrows and an imploring look.

"Is everything alright, dear?" It was different, all of a sudden, his voice, there hadn't been anything between his words in the past, Crowley had listened closely enough to know that with a bone deep certainty, but now there was something shivering there, the briefest pause ringing with promise.

Crowley strained his ears, swallowed the blood and healed his tongue with a thought, then smiled a strained smile.  
"Yeah, yeah, it's nothing."

Aziraphale didn't look like he believed him, and was about to look down on his book again, but Crowley had a strong urge to keep up _some_ sort of conversation. He cast around his head for something to talk about, but there was nothing there but a gentle tug in the direction of _more_. He looked around the room, his eyes landed on the empty bottle of wine.

"Nice wine." The words sounded forced even to his own ears, and Aziraphale looked at him with a hint of concern.  
"So you've said." _There it was_! Hidden in plain sight, syllables hanging in the air just waiting to be deciphered and understood. Crowley had an urge to find a pen and paper to paint down what he had heard, but despite being in a bookshop, there wasn't much in the form of blank papers, nor pens for that matter.

"Are you sure you're quite alright?"   
"K, Ngh, Ko... yes, I mean yes! Yes I'm alright! Of course I am, why wouldn't I be?" He was sweating, it was closer than it ever had been before. So frustratingly _close_.  
"Crowley?" He caught himself frantically looking around for something to grab hold of, something tangible to make sense of it all.  
"Read to me?" He blurted out, if he could get the angel to speak, to read, sing, _anything_ he was _sure_ he'd find what he needed in the speech.  
"I'm sorry?" Aziraphale looked more than surprised, it had been a very long time since Crowley had asked him to read.  
"Could you read to me?" He was practically vibrating with nervous energy, he could _taste_ the memory of sound on his tongue.  
"Well... alright... Anything special?" Crowley growled in frustration and ripped his sunglasses off.  
"Whatever you're reading is good, I just... I just need to hear your voice." 

He didn't know what it was that made Aziraphale recoil, and he was sure that if the angel hadn't been sitting down he'd have fallen over. As it was he just fell back against the backrest, eyes wide and lips slightly parted.  
Crowley took a deep breath and closed his eyes, he probably looked insane, he _felt_ insane.

"Please." He whispered, just a brush of breath over his lips.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, and his voice was wavering slightly as he started reading in the middle of a sentence.   
The vibrations danced in Crowley's ears, leaving behind traces of divinity and the promise of a prayer answered. It wasn't just between the words anymore, it was the pauses in between every letter.

Crowley could _see_ the atoms in the air clashing together, letting the sound travel to him, he could _see_ their path from the angel's mouth to Crowley's ears. He could _see_ the odd path they took, carving out a space for _something_ in the middle of the room. 

The Something was shifting, shimmering like glittering stars seen through the haze of pollution. 

Crowley didn't breathe, he didn't blink, his whole being was frozen in place, not even the wheels of his essence were shifting against each other. Aziraphale's voice became steadier, but it faded from Crowley's mind and the only thing he could hear were the echoes. They rearranged, they drifted closer and closer together, building something out of nothing, pulling sound out of nowhere, a crescendo building in his head.

When it came to him, it was like being shot right between the eyes, deafened by thunder, blinded by lightning. Acid covered his tongue and he gasped, blood and ichor fought for space in his lungs, he didn't need to breathe, but he was choking.

Aziraphale was there immediately, patting him on the back, and when that didn't help, he snapped his fingers with a miracle.  
Crowley drew a ragged and grateful breath as he wiped tears from his eyes. He was hyperventilating, and when Aziraphale made to move to sit beside him, Crowley's clawed hand grabbed his wrist, maybe painfully tight, but it was more important now than any other moment in time that the angel hear _exactly_ what Crowley had to say:

"Kokabiel" 

There was a moment then, a moment that extended for an eternity, like ripples over a still lake, meeting the shore only to make their way out again. Crowley held his breath, ready to taste fire and brimstone, ready to feel the cold burn of the fall all over again.

When nothing happened, when the dim echo of his name had traveled back to him from the bookshops walls, he let go of his breath, and of the angel's hand.

"What did you say?" Aziraphale was looking at him as if he were a revelation.

"Kokabiel." Six thousand years of searching, and he finally found it in the spaces between letters, in his angel's voice. "That was my name." He choked out as the tears came back. The relief of the last missing piece of him snapping back to make him complete felt both enormous and miniscule. 

His whole body was trembling as one of the last open wounds in his soul knitted over, sealing his Name in tissue and bone. 

"Kokabiel... You made the stars." Aziraphale whispered as he moved to Crowley's side and sat down.

"I did, yeah." He was still shaking, it was as if everything had been rearranged just an inch to the left, not enough to be visible, but enough to trip over when trying to navigate well worn paths.


	4. Domestic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Oh yes, working titles...) An early morning in the South Downs, some disoriented stumbling trying to get out of bed, cuddles, and a promise of coffee. This one is pure fluff for once, and should have ended with a reminder of how much they love each other while greeting the new day on the front porch. (Crowley POV)

The sounds of the waves are distant as they lap the shore, and he's still feeling groggy from napping for an as of yet unspecified length of time.  
The window is open and the morning sun is peeking in, falling with gentle warm over his body. He doesn't know why, but his first complain is that his feet are cold, followed by the more standard displeasure of being awake so early. It doesn't matter how long he's slept, waking up in the _morning_ is not acceptable.

He's just about to burrow in under the blankets again when Aziraphale gently opens the door, unsure if Crowley is awake.  
"Good morning, dear" He whispers as he makes his way over to the bed. Crowley snuffles pathetically in the pillow, and curls up to look as small and sorry as he can, it's bound to get him some much wanted attention.

It's no different this time, his angel chuckles and starts stroking through his hair. It's been growing longer lately, and the red strands tangle in Aziraphale's fingers. Crowley closes his eyes again and leans in to the contact, making sure to look as sad and tired as he can to prolong the morning wake-up call.

As expected, Aziraphale lies down, digs Crowley out of the blankets, and pulls him in to a soft and warm embrace.

This is their morning routine, it's painfully domestic and caters to Crowley's need to be the center of attention, and Aziraphale's need to take care of him.   
They relish the feeling for a while, until Aziraphale finally gets peckish and starts to extricate himself from Crowley's now (not so) surprisingly serpentine hug.

"Crowley" He snorts, still amused, he knows this dance well. "I was thinking of making some crepes, I can make some savory ones for you, if you'd like?" He is making slow progress of getting out of bed, plucking one of Crowley's hands away from around his neck.  
Crowley whines.  
"Really? I hadn't considered that." The next arm is pinned down to the first, to prevent Crowley from snaking around him again.  
Crowley grunts.  
"It must have been a frightfully exciting story, do tell me all about it." One leg is tucked back under the blankets to make it more difficult to close it around Aziraphale's again.  
Crowley growls.  
"They did what?" He fakes offence, and finally gets out of bed after tangling up Crowley's other leg in another one of the blankets.  
Crowley whines again.  
"Really, love, do get up." Aziraphale pats Crowley on the ass a few times and quickly makes his way out the door.

Crowley spends some frustrating moments untangling himself before he staggers out of bed, feeling a bit affronted that his angel would just _leave_ him in the middle of a small tantrum. Then again, they do it every morning. It doesn't ease the sting though.  
What _will_ ease the sting is to walk down the stairs and wrap his arms around his angel and cling to him while he makes breakfast.

Crowley perks up, and does just that.   
Or tries to.  
The angel did a good job of tangling him in the blankets this morning, and Crowley falls flat on his face.  
He spends some time on the soft carpet, feeling pretty sorry for himself, before he decides to tell the angel all about it and whine some more, a slight guilt trip to start the day.

He kicks the blanket away and gets up, knowing it's impossible to guilt trip the angel these days, but he wants to make an honest effort nevertheless.


	5. Coveting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale indulges in some me-time before going to meet Crowley, lots of imagination and fondling and pining. Would have ended on a bittersweet note about Crowley attempting a kiss, Aziraphale turning away to pretend like nothing, and promising himself that one day he'll be brave enough, one day they'll be free, and on that day, he'll tell Crowley just how much he loves him. (Aziraphale POV)

He had allowed himself to imagine, some times, the whisper of cloth as his tie was removed, gently pulled from around his neck by clawed hands. He had imagined the glint of white teeth in the moonlight, a manic grin found in humanity's worst nightmares, but a grin that would never fail to set his blood aflame.

He's never scared, as he touches himself to the thought of cold hands, as he strokes his hands over his thighs, imagining claws just _barely_ scratching through his skin.

He imagines it gentle, ravenous, he imagines a puff of breath against his own lips before he's opened up by a persistent tongue, digging the breath he doesn't need out of his lungs. 

Those yellow eyes, as much a threat as a promise of safety as they crinkle in a hungry smile.

He wants to be _devoured_.

Clear images as though they were a memory, a touch burned in to his very skin.

They have never touched like this. 

He sighs as he reaches down his own trousers, imagining a hand with nimble fingers, so unlike his own. He imagines the chance of scrapes and injury, and the element of risk only serves to make him warmer. He thinks of the last time he saw Crowley smile, how fond it had been behind the bluster and the ribbing. And he imagines it now, soft and tender in the light coming through the window.

He's aching.

He's wishing.

He's thinking.

He starts softly, stroking without purpose, and he imagines the lithe weight of a body against his own, he imagines feathers and scales, a coiling cold slowly turning to a springing warmth, eventually to consume him.

He changes strides, grasps harder, and a soft gasp escapes him. Oh how he wishes he weren't alone. Oh how he wishes his own hands were clenched in fiery red hair, nails tearing down a pale and sinuous back, vertebrae after vertebrae catching under his frantic hands.

He reaches further down, teasing himself with a promise of things to come. But for now he has time, he's not in a hurry, and the fantasy is nothing new. He revisits his oldest desires as he removes his hands from where he's growing harder, and with trembling hands he removes his trousers.

He's getting impatient, the images in his mind filthy and filled with heat. He imagines what it'd be like, if his dear was here, would it be this entrancing? Would it be better? Oh, he knows it would.

He thinks of the lack of control as Crowley would pin his hips to the bed, hold him down while licking burning lines down his length. Sharp teeth worrying on a padded hip, just a grace of danger to heat him up further.

He gasps, touches himself again, now fully hard. He closes his eyes, there's shame in this still. He's done it hundreds of times, thinking of Crowley, never anyone but Crowley.

He wonders what Crowley would do if he _knew_. He'd like to think of a teasing smile, an insistent demand to know _exactly_ what Aziraphale has conjured up in his mind, and an exacting replica of his deepest desires.

But there's uncertainty there. A threat of disgust, distrust, abandonment.

He shakes the thoughts off, thinks of Crowley smirking and laughing at him, forcing an embarrassed blush to his cheeks as he makes Aziraphale recount every dirty thought he's ever had, mocking him under the pretense of guiding him to give him pleasure.

A soft moan escapes him in the dark, and he tightens his hand, holds it still and lets his hips rock up in to his own grip. Slowly at first, teasing and restrictive. But as he imagines Crowley's mouth swallowing him down, his movements grow erratic. He's gasping and moaning, his other hand clenching in the sheets. 

The images are startlingly clear, and he aches for the real thing. He aches and longs so much it almost tempers his pleasure, but he thinks harder, shakes away the longing and thinks of it as a certainty. 

He comes on a quiet gasp, hips and hand moving of their own accord until he's twitching with sensitivity. He lets go slowly, and as always, shame overcomes him immediately.

Self-reprimand is quick to follow. He should stop doing this, stop imagining these things. What if Crowley knew? What if he could _sense_ it in him? Don't demons sens lust? It is a vice after all.  
He panics a little at the thought, just as he always does, and then thinks that surely Crowley would have teased him about it by now if he knew.

It's not a comforting thought. What if Crowley is disgusted? Embarrassed about it? What if he never brings it up because he doesn't feel the same? 

Aziraphale can't see how he would ever be alluring. He's too plump, too soft, too... much. The post-orgasm haze clears and he miracles away the mess and the feeling, and with a huff he mentally slaps himself. He needs to stop, he can't let himself hope.  
Someone like Crowley could never lust for someone like _him_ , surely?

He's flustered as he dresses, he's due to meet him shortly, and even though Aziraphale miracles away the smell and every sign of his actions, he's afraid his dear will know, will be disgusted.   
He shakes every thought of his actions away from his mind, forces a smile to his lips until it becomes genuine, and walks down the stairs.

Leaving that particular imagination in the bedroom, and goes to meet the demon. And as usual, he won't mention a thing.

Maybe one day he'll have the real thing, Crowley moving in him, over him, with him, but for now he's happy with what he's got, or so he tries to convince himself.

It doesn't do to dwell on dreams. Not when they will _never_ be.


	6. Stark Raving Mad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley digs up some courage to go confess his unending love, manages with some dramatics and a confused cup of tea, the smut starts, but I didn't finish writing it, I DID write the end though, which I think is rather sweet, but it's missing a huge chunk in the middle. (Crowley POV)

There was no shame in this, no reason to reconsider. It was one leap of faith, and then no backing down, no more safe ground or ingrained routine. 

Crowley had dressed in his finest suit, added a rose to the button hole of his shirt, and a red tartan handkerchief to his pocket, just to give the angel something to look at, and maybe surprise him a bit.   
He'd be lying if he said he wasn't nervous, and lie was what he did, at least to himself.

He needed his courage for this, so he shoved his nervousness to the back of his mind and shoved his hands down his pockets, just to see how it would ruin the lines of his suit and determine if he could use the tactic to keep from fidgeting.

He decided no, it ruined the suit quit spectacularly, he'd have to find some other way to keep his hands still.   
He lied some more to himself and told his nervousness that the angel wouldn't notice anything, as if anything ever escaped Aziraphale.

Well, some things did, probably. 

If the angel knew that Crowley loved him, he hadn't let it on. Maybe he was using the usual tactic of "Conceal, don't feel".   
_Fucking Frozen_ , he regretted that one, it'd be stuck in his head for the next millennia at least. 

Crowley scoffed and shook his head, time to face the music. As he waited for the elevator, he wondered how many metaphors he could distract himself with, he could have some fun coming up with new ones.  
His heart wasn't in it though, it was beating rapidly and making him sweat, his hands were clammy as he got behind the wheel of the Bentley. 

What was he even going to _say_?  
Just burst in to the bookshop and yell: _"Hey, Aziraphale! I have loved you for 6000 years and I think it's time you knew that and I want you to reciprocate and fuck me already!"_?  
Maybe getting right to the point _would_ simplify things, but maybe he could use some more tact: _"Hey, Aziraphale... I have loved you since the beginning, and I wonder if maybe, perhaps, you would do me the honor and go on a date with me?"_

It sounded vaguely better, but also like something a nervous high schooler would say, and Crowley was _not_ nervous, nor a high schooler for that matter. Maybe something more romantic? Something more grown up?  
 _"Hey, Aziraphale, I've loved you since the beginning, and I want you to know that I will love you for the rest of eternity, can we fuck?"_  
His brain fizzled out, that was decidedly _not_ romantic. He didn't think he could _do_ romance. 

If he couldn't do romance, what on earth _could_ he do? What would Aziraphale even _find_ romantic?   
He growled in frustration, and a mailbox, street light, and entire storefront had to dodge away from the Bentley as he took a turn just a tad bit too sharply.

At this rate he'd arrive too soon. _Why_ hadn't he thought about this?! Made some sort of _plan_?!   
He beat his head against the steering wheel and stared at his knees, the Bentley took over, it knew the way to the bookshop.

Crowley was _busy_ , he couldn't be expected to do something as mundane as _drive the car that was going ninety miles per hour_.  
The Bentley decided that the faster they got to Soho and it could dump Crowley at the bookshop the better, it was much like it's master in that way, it didn't _do_ angst and pining and whatever else. _Feelings_.

That was also a lie. 

Crowley felt a lot of feelings. Too many, actually, far too many feelings. Empathy, love, adoration, disgust, love, hatred, angst, self-loathing, love. Just to name a few.  
And the Bentley loved too, it loved just as deeply as Crowley did. It loved the angel, and it loved irritating him and sending his pulse sky-rocketing by driving far too fast, even when Crowley tried to be kind and slow down a little to ease the angel's suffering.

The Bentley screeched to a halt outside the bookshop, making Crowley hit his head on the steering wheel again and curse creatively, the Bentley snickered, though it sounded more like the exhaust coughing a bit.

"Yeah, yeah, great job." He muttered, and got out. He stumbled a little on the sidewalk and took a moment to right himself. _Not nervous_.  
His steps felt leaden as he walked up the steps and opened the locked door, and doubt started to shower over him as the bell tinkled merrily, greeting him, then changing it's mind and tinkled less merrily to show it's concern.   
"I'm fine!" Crowley growled. The bell didn't believe him.

What if the angel didn't even want to see him? What if he wasn't home? What if he was busy? This was a stupid idea! It was an _awful_ idea, it was such a profoundly _idiotic_ idea that Crowley very nearly left, and he would have, had Aziraphale not had impeccable timing and chose that very second to step out from behind a bookcase.

"Crowley!" He smiled delightedly, and Crowley _melted_. And then went rigid again. What was he _doing_?! He couldn't do this, no, nope, not happening, nu-uh, not gonna come to pass, error, application not found.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale looked concerned, and walked forward as if to examine him. "Are you alright?" 

"Ngk." He wanted a drink, or ten, or twenty, and then maybe he could say it.

"Did something happen?" Aziraphale was in his space now, and Crowley's brain was offline, the only thing bouncing around in his head was a screensaver that said: _"Just say it!"_

"Ng-N-No, nothing, no, noth- nothing happened, angel." He managed to say, and then short-circuited at Aziraphale's disbelieving expression, and then again when Aziraphale grabbed his arm and started pulling him to the back room. And then a third time when he was ushered down on the sofa, and a fourth when a cup of tea was pressed in to his hands.

"Tell me what's the matter, dear boy." Aziraphale was on the edge of his seat, looking thunderous, ready to smite whatever problem Crowley had. Which was very bad, because Crowley's problem at present moment was Crowley himself, and he didn't want to get smote before he'd had the chance to say he loved the angel.

He worked his jaw for a moment, took a sip of whiskey from the teacup which had wisely decided that turning in to something stronger was the best course of action. Aziraphale was not impressed, and snapped his fingers to change it back to a sweet chai.

"Okay, so." He started, and then stopped, and then started again: "So, I have decided." He stopped. Took another sip of whiskey, a better aged this time. Aziraphale snapped his fingers again.

"You've decided?" He prompted, his frown grown irritated, yet still vengeful.

"I have." He said, and believed that that was enough, surely that was an adequate explanation and the angel would put the puzzle together.

He looked stumped. 

That was not ideal.

"What have you decided?"

Crowley got his brain back on track and realized to his horror that he actually hadn't said much of anything, so much for style, or aloofness, or confidence. He was a stammering mess and he hadn't even gotten started yet.  
"Uh." He said intelligently.   
The teacup was confusedly turning back and forth between containing any sort of strong spirit versus any sort of strong tea, until it cracked in Crowley's hands and he was made further embarrassed by a lap full of spiked tea.

He groaned miserably and put his face in his hands, the teacup dangling from his pinkie finger.  
"This is a disaster!" He exclaimed, and Aziraphale snorted.

"It's just tea, dear."

"Not the fucking tea!" Great, he was getting irritated and snappish, that was the _opposite_ of what he wanted. "Look, I've gone mad, okay? Completely bonkers, out of my mind, insane, stupid, dumb, take your pick!" He nearly shouted, but the sound was muffled by his hands. One half of the teacup fell to the floor.

"I don't think-"

" _Insane_!" Crowley stressed. "Absolutely _insane_!"

"Really now, what brought this on?" The vengeful look and the frown had disappeared, and been replaced by poorly hidden amusement.

"You did!" He snapped, and instantly regretted it. "Uh, I mean...", He lift his face from his hands and got tongue tied at the wounded look on Aziraphale's face, the rest of the teacup fell to the floor, leaving only the handle still dangling from Crowley's finger.

"What... what have I done?" He asked, voice careful and warm and kind and soft.

"Okay, okay, just say it, Crowley, just say it, can't be that difficult, right?" He whispered to his knees, they didn't reply. He discarded the sorry remains of the cup, and then looked up again, and promptly cursed and blessed himself to heaven and to hell and back at Aziraphale's mournful look. 

"If I can fix it somehow, my dear, of course I'll do anything I can, I-"

"Iloveyou" He stumbled out. _Mortified_ he was _mortified_.

"What did you say?"

"I... I _love you_." There, he'd said it, now he could leave and never come back, he was about to do just that when Aziraphale stood up, put a commanding hand on his shoulder and pushed Crowley back on the sofa.

"Say it again."

"I love you, I love you! Okay?! I _love_ you and I've _loved_ you for six thousand _fucking_ years and I'd really appreciate it if you could perhaps return my feelings or if that's too fast for you then that's okay but I just wanted you to know and-" Deep breath "- maybe we could go for a date or a vacation or something romantic how about movie and a dinner that's a classic!" deeper breath "and maybe afterwards we could go back to my place and drink some wine and kiss and then snog and then maybe we could _fuck_ already because I've imagined it a thousand times and I'd like to try the real thing and you can stop me at any time right now or do you want me to keep blabbering on because I have six thousand years of love confessions to- mmhph!" 

He was silenced by an urgent and insistent kiss, soft, dry lips against his own, and every ounce of tension went out of him so fast it felt like he would pass out. Aziraphale held him up though, both hands cradled his face and kept him in place. He thought it'd be a quick peck on his lips to start off with, but when Aziraphale showed no signs of stopping, Crowley relaxed further and returned the kiss he'd longed for since Rome, when he first let himself imagine that this was at all possible.

His hands were shaking violently as he grabbed Aziraphale's arms to deepen the kiss.   
He shook even more violently when Aziraphale pushed him back against the backrest and straddled his thighs, without breaking the kiss.

Aziraphale's tongue licked against Crowley's lips, and he gasped and met the angel head-on.   
It was aggressive one second, searching the next, then sweet and tender, before it circled around again to aggressive.  
It was the kind of kiss that was six thousand years in the making, and by God it was going to be a good one.  
He didn't know how much time passed and he didn't care, the world could decide to bring back Armageddon again and he wouldn't care, the heat death of the universe could occur and he _still_ wouldn't care, because he was kissing his angel, and Aziraphale was kissing back with a passion only hundreds or maybe thousands of years of repressed feelings could call forth.

"Since Eden, huh?" Aziraphale muttered as he broke the kiss and licked his lips, he didn't let Crowley reply before he was back at it though. His kisses started meandering from his lips to his jaw and earlobe and down his neck, and even if Crowley had been expected to reply, or even _wanted_ to reply, there wasn't enough blood left in his brain to formulate anything close to an eloquent answer.

"You know, dear, it's about time, isn't it?" Aziraphale whispered against his collarbone, and was met with a desperate moan that Crowley tried to suppress. The angel scoffed at the handkerchief, then worked his hands under the suit jacket to get a better angle to suck a mark at Crowley's neck. 

He realized he was hard, achingly hard, and he realized he loved bite-marks when Aziraphale bit down, he almost shouted, but managed to silence it to a keening moan. He was dying, actually dying, he was going to perish, he was going to get dead, not discorporated, actually dead, completely and absolutely passed on to the great hereafter and then he was going to be revived by the angel's lips on his own. 

He was okay with that.

No, scratch that, he would get permanently dead, because the angel had decided that grinding down against his aching groin was a good idea, and Crowley's brain would melt and flow out of his ears and he would get permanently dead. 

He didn't know what sounds were escaping his mouth, but he did realize he was crying. _Mortified_.

"Hush now, dear, there's a love." Aziraphale whispered, and bit down on the other side of Crowley's neck at the same time as he ground his hips down. Crowley very nearly shot right off the sofa to topple them both to the floor, but was stopped by another hard thrust downwards. "This is it? Is this okay?" 

"Y-ngh, sh, yhs sure" Really, thousands of years of love and repressed desire was rearing it's beutiful head, and Crowley couldn't be expected to actually formulate an answer, could he? No, definitely not, no, nope, not happening, nu-uh, not gonna come to pass, error, application not found.

Aziraphale took it for the agreement it was, and shook Crowley's arms away from his own so he could shove his suit jacket off his shoulders, remove it, and drop it in a crumpled heap on the floor.

He was okay with that, really, very on board with the whole deal, they should get naked. They should get naked and then vertical, but naked was fine, he could ride Aziraphale on the sofa, that was fine, completely okay with him.

***  
"Crowley?" Aziraphale whispered in the dim morning light, tracing patterns on Crowley's chest.

"Hmm?"

"Last evening... Well... You said something that made me a bit curious." Had he said something? He frankly couldn't remember a single thing at the moment, his brain was thoroughly blown, high on endorphin and love and even more thoroughly settled lust, not to mention the evisceration of six thousand years of sexual tension.

"What'd I say?" He mumbled, he couldn't do much more than that, lips swollen and lazy, still tingling from being bitten and worshiped.

"You said you had six thousand years of love confessions... but I kissed you before I had the chance to hear even one of them!" The angel was pouting, he was pouting, puppy-eyes and pouty lips and eyebrow crease and all. Crowley didn't even need to look at him to have the image clear in his head, he looked anyways, and was appalled at how mushy it made him feel.

It wasn't just the angel's usual pouty face, no, the lips made an even prettier picture being kiss-swollen and a soft pink, and the blush on his cheeks made his blue eyes practically _glow_.

_Smitten_ , Crowley was well and completely _smitten_

"Are you fishing for compliments?" He smiled, but still mumbling a bit, it'd take more than a good night's sleep to get his bearings after something like _that_.

"Maybe I am..." He looked shy for all of two seconds before he smiled. "Indulge me?"

Crowley didn't manage as long as two seconds before he caved:

"Alright, you're lucky I have these memorized."

"Memorized?" Aziraphale lift his eyebrows impressively high, and snickered a little.

"Hey! Don't mock the flatterer! What else was I supposed to fantasize about? I'm an old man, I need to keep my mind active, now, anyways... Ah, yes, this is a letter I wrote when written language was invented." He cleared his throat, and as he blushed fiercely, he looked at the ceiling to avoid stuttering to a halt at the look on the angel's face.

"Aziraphale, I saw your face for the first time when we were enemies, I don't know what we are these days, but I want you to know I love you like no one could ever love an enemy, you are the only one who makes my mission on earth bearable, it is lonely, living for a long time, but when I'm with you, I feel like I could live forever and not hate a moment of it." He coughed a little and closed his eyes. He could remember the exact time and day he wrote that.

It was in a dingy tavern on the edge of some forgotten village whose only good feature was the compost heap. He had sat with his head bent over the table, receiving instructions from a scholar who was passing through on his way to some greater fortune. Crowley had offered him one of his larger wing feathers to fashion in to a pen in exchange for being taught how to write.

They had spent an enjoyable evening together, drinking and learning, and the scholar had been suitably impressed by the feather, and swore he'd only use it to engrave good things, not knowing he'd be literally incapable of doing so with that particular feather.

So the first thing Crowley had _ever_ written was a love letter, ensconced in the back of a tavern with a young and bright scholar, drunk on fermented _something_ , and thinking of nothing and no one but his angel.

Of course Aziraphale picked up on all of this, and sat up to look down on him. Crowley opened his eyes to see a single, fat tear roll down his angel's cheek.

"You wrote me that?" He sniffed, and looked right in to Crowley's eyes, as if searching through his whole soul, or what amounted to a soul, anyways, high and low, every crevice, nook, and cranny. Crowley let him right in, opening his eyes a tad bit wider to take in the very essence of what made Aziraphale _Aziraphale_. 

The love and adoration was so strong he felt like he was back to a few hours ago, blissful and unaware of the world outside of their little bubble of peace and security.

"'Course, angel." Crowley whispered, it felt like he would break the moment if he spoke too loud, like it was a skittish thing just waiting for a reason to bolt. So he held it, held it steady and present and _close_. 

He never wanted to let go.

Aziraphale leaned down, and even though they'd been kissing the whole evening, night, and in to the early morning hours, it felt like a first kiss. One that told a story of friendship, love, lust, and a promise of so much more to come.

Crowley closed his eyes and relished in it for as long as it would last. Nothing would break, nothing would take this away from him, he'd be damned again before he let that happen.  
The kiss ended softly, and oh so slowly, Aziraphale laid down again, resting his head on Crowley's chest.

"Thank you" He whispered, and then: "Tell me another?"


	7. Show a little tenderness.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley accidentally confesses his love. Angst heavy and self-loathing, while Aziraphale is trying to get Crowley to look at him and tell him he loves him too... but... yeah. Should have ended with some cuddling and Aziraphale listing every single little thing that has ever made him love Crowley, to Crowleys mounting mortification (It takes a few days.) (Crowley POV)

He had denied himself this for so long, he didn't know how to let it in.  
A soft touch at his elbow, a hand brushing dust from his shoulder, a kind hand grasping his to help him off the floor.

He wasn't worthy.

Hadn't it been proven time and time again?

He wasn't worthy. He was unforgivable, unredeemable, unlovable.

"Crowley?"

He'd break at that voice. He'd fall to his knees and shatter. He couldn't stand it, he had to leave. He'd done enough damage.

And he'd been so good, he'd stomped it down and kicked it away and buried it deep. And one drunken night had been enough to steal it from behind his teeth. He'd kept it a secret for so long it had been second nature, oh, he'd showed, but never told. And the angel, in all his grace and glory, had looked the other way.  
Crowley was _thankful_ that it had never been acknowledged. It was this still thing between them, something vast and unrestrained just waiting to be woken up.

And it had, it had. 

It was awake.

"Please, look at me, dear." 

He couldn't. He _couldn't_. He was falling apart. He was sitting still, every muscle coiled and ready to attack, deflect, defend, flee. His hearing was being overwhelmed with his own blood rushing in his ears, but he still picked up on the subtle shift of fabric as the angel stood up.

_Don't_ , He wanted to say. _I'll consume you, I'll bring you down with me, I'll seep in to all that is good in you and rip it apart. Don't touch me, please. Please. ___

__He said none of this. His jaw was clenched so hard he heard his teeth creaking. The predator in him was snaking itself up his throat, constricting and binding, ready to spit venom, ready to bite and wound and mar. He felt his incisors growing, felt the claws on his hands tearing the upholstery as they grew out. He felt the scales on his spine burn as the skin all but melted away._ _

__"Please."_ _

__That voice. _His angel's_ voice. Cutting through him like a dull knife. He forgot how to breathe, he forgot how to see, how to hear or feel.   
It was with stubbornness honed over millennia that he reined in his instincts, and pried his eyes open.  
Black spots danced across his vision, and he felt like he was going to throw up, pass out, make a mess, start crying, start screaming and screaming until his throat was filled with blood, and maybe he'd drown in it, choke on it, stop himself from saying all the things he wanted to say._ _

__He couldn't have this. Hadn't he already come to terms with that? He could have none of the touches, none of the pleasure or pains accompanied by them. He couldn't have the love. Hadn't he been told time and time again that he couldn't feel it?  
Hadn't he been told by _this very angel_ that he couldn't feel it?   
He had latched on to it, convinced himself it wasn't real, convinced himself it was something else, lust, perhaps. He had taken those words and fashioned them in to an armor, he had embraced those words and built his identity around them. _ _

__So no, he couldn't feel love. He had taught himself not to feel it. He had buried what he _knew_ was love, and dressed it's cage in denial and thorns, never to be touched again._ _

__Yet it was always on the tip of his tongue, always in the frame of his vessel, screaming through his restrained smiles and hidden in polite conversation._ _

__And it'd be just his luck, that tonight it was ripped out, thrown out in the open, ready to be rejected, ready to be ripped apart and thrown away in disgust._ _

__"Look at me."_ _

__He _couldn't_. He cast his eyes down, it took a second for him to give up, give in to his self-loathing and disgusted hatred for all that he is to take over. It took an eternity to duck his head, to cover his face with his violently shaking hands. It took an eternity to squash down a wretched sob, and he didn't know how he managed in the end._ _

__"Don't believe a word you're telling yourself right now, dear." His voice was stern, no-nonsense, to the point._ _

__It wasn't helping._ _

__Crowley loved helplessly, he loved deeply, he loved unconditionally. And he loved that voice. He loved the arguments and the squabbles. He had memorized every tone of voice the angel had, every pitch and hitch._ _

__And he wasn't worth a second of it. He wasn't worthy._ _

__He wasn't worthy._ _

___He wasn't worthy_._ _

__He had loved _Her_ once. He had loved, because it was the only thing he knew how to do. He had loved the stars and the planets, he had loved Her creation by the sum of it's part and by the wholeness of it.   
And he had been taught that it wasn't enough, had never been enough and would never _be_ enough._ _

__He was cast out, cast away, looked upon with disgust, distrust, disappointment, disapproval._ _

__Why would it be any different now? If a God made for and of love wouldn't think twice about throwing him away, why would Her best, holiest, loveliest angel be any different? Why would he look at Crowley any differently? Why? Why? _Why?__ _

__If only he'd been quiet, if only he hadn't come, if only, if only, _if only_._ _

__He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to pull his own hair and scratch his claws over his face, claw his heart out of his chest where it was beating wildly, and tear it apart._ _

__It wasn't his fingers that threaded through his hair though.  
He would never touch himself with such care and gentleness. _He wasn't worth it_._ _

__Another sob caught in his chest, struggling to break free, but it sunk back down and died away, releasing it's ghost in a shuddering breath. He couldn't have this. Soft fingers carding through his hair, a gentle presence by his side. He wasn't _allowed_ this._ _

__"Crowley, please... Please look at me."_ _

__There they were. Salty, stinging tears in the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill over and drown him._ _

__Aziraphale touched his wrist, held it gently as he moved it away from Crowley's face with undeserved tenderness._ _

__He should be furious. He should be disgusted. He should be demanding that Crowley leave and never come back. Instead he stood there in his infinite patience, and let two fingers rest under Crowley's chin. And, oh so softly, he lift Crowley's face, forced him to face him, to look him in the eyes, see his disgust._ _

__It didn't take more than a second, but it felt like an eternity. And in that small eternity, Crowley felt true fear.  
He was clinging desperately to the last ragged hold he had. Trying to convince himself that this wasn't happening, trying to convince himself that he had never said anything, that this was a nightmare, that he'd wake up sweating and with the sheets tangled around him, alone._ _

__Always alone._ _

__He didn't see disgust.  
He didn't see distrust or disapproval or anything of the sort._ _

__He couldn't comprehend the adoration and love that was radiating from the angel's sad smile. It wasn't supposed to be there. It wasn't supposed to exist, not for him, never for _him_.  
Aziraphale touched the sides of his glasses, waiting for him to recoil if he didn't want them removed, when Crowley didn't move, Aziraphale removed them slowly and put them on a side table._ _

__" _Oh_ , oh my dear." _ _

___Don't_._ _

___Don't be gentle._ _ _

___Don't be kind._ _ _

___I can't take it._ _ _

___I can't **breathe**_ _ _

__"Crowley, dearest, I'm here... Shh, I'm here."_ _

___What?_ _ _

__Aziraphale tucked a lock of Crowley's hair behind his ear, and gently cradled his face in his hands. His soft thumbs wiped away the tears that had dared spill._ _

__"I love you too." Aziraphale whispered._ _

__Crowley broke. His lip trembled slightly before he started sobbing. Thoughts were born and collapsed before he could grasp them, memories flashed before his eyes, self-loathing and disbelief crashed together and blinded him.  
He was shaking and gasping, and Aziraphale did nothing but smile at him with so much adoration and love that his heart broke._ _

___He can't love **you**_._ _

___There's nothing about you that can be loved, nothing._ _ _

___You're empty, there's nothing in you worth loving, there's nothing but shadows and rot, unlovable, unforgivable. **Disgusting**_ _ _

__"I love you, my dear. I love you. I love you so much, Crowley... Dear." Aziraphale was slow in his movements as he bent down and placed a kiss on Crowley's forehead. A benediction he didn't deserve._ _

___He was breaking apart_. He'd be reduced to nothing. He'd wither, turn to dust and blow away in a breath.  
 _This isn't possible, you can't have this.__ _

__"Shh, I'm here."_ _

__Crowley moved, he raised his trembling hands and gripped Aziraphale's wrists, just holding him in place. _Don't let go._ He couldn't speak, every breath was caught in his throat, filling him up, suffocating him, bringing him to life. They escaped in shuddering gasps he had no hope of controlling._ _

__He wanted to crawl in on himself, he wanted to disappear and never be seen again.  
He wanted to open himself up, let the angel in, never be unseen again. _ _

__"I'm here."_ _

__With Crowley's grip around his wrists, there was nowhere to move but forward. Aziraphale's hands were still soft on Crowley's face as he eased forward and sat down, straddling Crowley's lap._ _

__"I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere, I'm here, my love."_ _

__Crowley moved his hands from Aziraphale's wrists and put his arms around the angel, pulling him closer, he shook his head free and buried it in the crux of the angel's shoulder and neck, and Aziraphale carded his hand through Crowley's hair, his other hand moved slowly up and down his back, drawing circles where his wings would be._ _

___You can't have this, let go, push away, leave._ _ _

__"I'm here, my love, I'm here, you're so beautiful, and I'm here."_ _

___You're tainted, stained with ink and tar and oil, you'll taint him, spill your rot, darken his feathers, he's going to fall, and it'll be your fault._ _ _

__He was shaking his head, he was desperately holding on, desperately trying to silence his thoughts and relish the moment, _his_ angel, in _his_ arms. _ _

__And while he was breaking his own heart, he never wanted the moment to end, he'd listen to every insidious word, if only he could have this for just a moment longer, if only they could stay there forever._ _

__With every fallen tear, the turmoil inside him got quieter, the world outside became clearer, and the dull ache of his head became heavier. He welcomed it all, he could breathe._ _

__Aziraphale leaned back slightly, just enough so he could look Crowley in his eyes.  
"There you are, my love."_ _


	8. Overgrown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some introspection, drunken idéas, longing eye-contact, and internal ramblings. This would have been a look into post-apocalypse doubt and a very grand love confession, as well as Crowley's trouble sleeping, lots of cuddles and soothing when the nightmares come. It would have ended happily with some flashes of their life in The South Downs. (Crowley POV)

The tide ebbs and flows, the rain falls, the sun rises and shines another day, and only a few creatures on earth know what a significant moment that sunrise is.  
A day will turn in to a week will turn in to a month will turn in to a year, and there won't be a single second in that time, that if given the choice, he would do _anything_ differently.

Why would he? All those choices, all those moments in time, all those words and gestures, all the risen empires and fallen kingdoms, they all brought him _here_.   
And _here_ in this moment, he's finally safe.

_"If you could do it all again, if you could change things... would you?"_

He wouldn't.

If he could turn back time, and remember every single choice and twitch of his brow, he would follow in his own footsteps, quite literally. And he would live a thousand eternities if they all ended up here, in this single fixed point in time. 

\--

He put the wineglass down with a thunk, and with a somewhat hazy vision, he looked up in to the same eyes he had looked up to see a thousand times before. He remembered every single moment where Aziraphale had the height advantage, and had to lower his eyes to meet Crowley's.

Crowley found himself wondering, if you blended the colors, Aziraphale's bright blue, and his own ocher, would the green be as verdant as the leaves in The Garden? Would it be a new shade entirely? If they stared in to each other's eyes for long enough, would their colors meld together and connect them heart and soul?  
He drunkenly thought that maybe that was something to try. He wouldn't mind looking in to Aziraphale's eyes for the rest of eternity, although the angel would probably start to fidget after a few hours and break the contact in search of a book.

Crowley decided to try it, he held the angel's gaze, as if he dared the other to look away. The angel didn't avert his eyes, but a blush started to steadily steal over his cheeks, his pupils dilated, and his tongue chased a drop of wine in the corner of his lips.  
Eighteen minutes and five seconds, and the angel blinked first, the movement so sharp in their broken stasis that Crowley flinched.

No, he thought when his mind was back on track and his eyes took in every little detail except what was in the general vicinity of Aziraphale, he wouldn't change a thing.  
His angel coughed delicately, and Crowley snapped his head back to look at him, he was still blushing, not even _attempting_ to blame it on the alcohol.


	9. The devil's whispers in your ears.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a Nightmare, capital N. He's hearing the Devil describe some icky things, it's pretty grim. This would have ended with him going to Aziraphale, making sure he's alive and well, give him a kiss on the lips, and invite him out for lunch. No talking about nightmares, but just a sweet slice of how Crowley already knows Aziraphale loves him and won't need any confirmation, but that if the angel were to tell him, he'd return the favor. (Crowley POV)

_What's your worst nightmare?_

_Is it being alone? Lonely?_

_Is it fire, licking up your legs, engulfing you and burning you away, away from every memory and every love?_

_Is it ice? Chilling you and breaking you apart, separating you from everything you hold dear?_

_Is it seeing his disgust? His disapproval? Is it seeing his back turned to you?_

_Is it the crippling fear of rejection?_

_Is it having your heart ripped out of your chest, ripped apart, spat at, rejected, disregarded, thrown away? Is it your love cracking and falling apart? Your dreams tearing at the edges, fraying and withering?_

_Is it his laughter ringing in your ears? His mocking smile, his pity, his condescending scoff and snort? Is it being turned away, again? Thrown away, again? Ripped from love, **again?**_

_What's your worst nightmare? What insidious disaster has wormed itself into your mind? What is it you stomp down your every waking hour, what is it that only escapes when you close your eyes?_

_Is it his lifeless corpse in your arms?_

_Is it the surety that he has left forever? Without even so much as a goodbye?_

_Is it being left behind, again? Again? **Again?**_

_Tell me._

_Tell me why you toss and turn at night._

_Tell me why you're scared of sleeping._

_Tell me why you're scared of waking up every day to more of the same._

_What is your deepest, darkest fear?_

_Tell me, I will listen. And I will smile. And my teeth will be glistening. And my eyes will be burning. And I will caress your cheek and kiss your forehead and tell you that you did good, that you are beautiful. And it will be like fire in your soul, all consuming and all encompassing. It'll burn you from the inside out, erasing you from memory, erasing you from time and space, forgotten, just an ache in the haze of the memory of you._

_What is your worst nightmare?_

_Is it his eyes staring right through you as you scream? As you beg and plead for him to notice you? Is it your voice being strangled in your chest, is it knowing that he's lost you? Is it knowing that you're the cause of his grief? Is it the tears in the corners of his eyes as he writes another letter he will never send?_

_Is it knowing that you were loved, and didn't survive long enough to hear him say it?_

_Tell me._

_I'm here._

_I'll listen._

_I'll tell you how good you were._

_And when you wake again, you'll grasp at the threads of your dream, screaming for something, just **something** , to make sense again._

_And when your tears have all dried, and when your breath is back in your lungs, I'll rip you apart for the last time, and scatter all that you are in the wind, never to be seen again, never to be **whole** again. _

_And it will be my final mercy._


	10. Nightmare White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's turn to have a nightmare, about Gabriel, punishment, and falling. This one is very short, but it would have turned into a drinking session where Aziraphale is drunkenly ranting about how he doesn't care if he falls, as long as he can be with Crowley, and oh, he hadn't ever confessed his love, had hed? Oh well, nothing for it, now the Dear knows, very well, time for a sloppy kiss to the lips of a very dumbstruck Crowley. Some raging from his part about how heaven doesn't have shit on Aziraphale and how he's the best and if he falls Crowley will drag down heaven and destroy every last one of them. Aziraphale shushes him and tells him to stop being dramatic, and they'll cross that bridge when they get to it. For now, let's sober up and kiss some more. (Aziraphale POV)

White wings dripping in tar, feathers coated and sticking together, a flash of lightning, violet eyes, retribution.  
A sword burning white, yellow, white, blue with lightning, a crash, rolling thunder so loud it could burst eardrums, retribution.  
Punishment, pain flaring through joints, wings breaking, cracking, twisting in on themselves, shrinking, tar changing the color of vibrant white to sickly black.  
Not sickly.  
Beautiful.

But it's punishment.  
It's punishment.  
It's retribution.

Unclean, filthy, filth, filthy filth.  
He smiles.  
He always smiles.  
So kind, so gentle.

So cruel.

Aziraphale wakes up in cold sweat, heart pounding so hard he wouldn't be surprised if it broke clean through his rib cage. He's shaking, uncoordinated and confused.

Had he been sleeping?


	11. A collection of letters from A.Z Fell to "C"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A museum has gotten a hold of Aziraphale's "love-letters" written to Crowley during the century-nap. This contains the letters, some speculations on index cards from the archivists, and would have ended with a coup to steal them back, which Crowley would (mortifyingly) come to get him out of, getting a hold of the letters in the process and oh no, that wasn't how Aziraphale wanted Crowley to find out. Well... What to do? What to do is to get drunk, reminisce, and laugh so hard about the archivist speculation that a painful mouthful of wine will be snorted out onto an unfortunate love-confession.

**Letter 1**

_The paper is yellowed and brittle, there are ink smudges on the page and ineligible scribbles in the margins, some words have been crossed over, the writing is rushed and clumsy._

Dearest C,

I don't know if this letter will find you ~~wherewen~~ wherever you are these days.  
I must admit things are dreadfully dull without you here,  
I don't know who to talk to anymore.  
No one understands me the way you do, C, no ~~ome~~ one has even tried.  
I am seen as the eccentric shop keeper, and I know you would laugh and agree,   
but your laughter would be with me, not at me.  
You're different in that regard, I can say it here, in this letter,   
without ~~fean~~ fear of being sniped at:   
You are a good person.  
I know you ~~mever~~ never want to acknowledge it, and it still eludes me as to why.  
Kindness never has been, and never will be, a sin, but maybe that is the reason.

It seems I have ~~knowm~~ known you for the longest time, and yet I know so ~~vemy~~ very little   
about you.  
And now, without fear of you calling me "a sappy dun ~~g~~ ce", I can tell you that I wish  
I knew more.  
I wish I knew more, so that I could do you small kindnesses, the way you do me.  
I wish I knew what I could offer you, what gift you would like, and give you the world,   
just to see you smile.

Your smiles are so hard womn, every one of them feels like a reward. 

A reward for what? I do ~~mot~~ not know, I just know that each time you smile at me,  
there's a warmth blooming in my chest, so overwhelming a desire that I ~~known~~ know not  
what to do about it, other than keep you near me.  
It eases when you are here.

I am maybe a tiny bit selfish in this regard, for were you here with me, I feel I could  
breathe out and resume my duties unhindered, which is absurd, seeing as you  
are supposed to be my hindrance.  
Yet this is how I feel, and I believe the time is right for you to know it, or at least  
for me to say it.

**Letter 2**

_This letter has a coffee stain in the lower right corner, and some drops of wine in the middle, making the words hard to read, the paper is extremely brittle with creases and seems to have been folded and opened on numerous occasions. It contains fewer crossed out words than the first._

My Dearest C.

Your absence and silence worries me, I look for you wherever I go, but I can't  
sense you.

I worry that something has happened to take you from this mortal ~~ooil~~ coil.

But if not, I must admit I am a bit upset and disappointed. We have gone a long  
time not talking or meeting before, but you were always there when I needed  
you. And you always made yourself known to me, just the sense of you in the  
world.

But this time there is nothing, and I can't ask anyone what happened.

Where are you? 

I wonder if they finally ~~founmd~~ found out what we've been up to, if our little   
arrangement has caught up to you, and they've destroyed you.

The mind has a fascinating tendency to conjure up the most awful consequences,  
and some days I believe this imagination to be a curse.

I miss you, and I hope you're well, although your ~~absenoe~~ absence would indicate   
otherwise.

Be a dear and reply as soon as you get this, just so I know you're alright.

**Letter 3**

_This letter is, unlike the previous two, written in red ink, indicating irritation and lack of propriety seeing as black ink was the only color deemed acceptable, anything else was distasteful and disrespectful._

My darling C, I miss you terribly.

I have found a friend and would like you to meet him, he has the most fascinating  
world view and I learn new things every day.  
Almost as much as I learned from you during our clandestine meetings.

I am disappointed and upset, your absence has no reason and no sense.

You have had ample time to tell me what has happened, you have had time to tell  
me if I have done something wrong, and your silence is resounding and an obvious  
choice.

I took the chance to ask Gabriel and Michael about your absence, they didn't   
suspect much but confirmed you are still on earth.  
Yet there's been no word from you, not even a hint of your location, no late night  
meetings drinking wine or dining together.

In all our time together, you have shown yourself kind and considerate, but this is  
beyond the pale, it is rude and unnecessary, it's childish and mean.  
I don't understand if I have done something, or if you have just tired of me.  
And the more I try to justify your absence, the more sorrow and anger I feel.

Please get back to me, if nothing else, just to tell me you have decided to abandon  
our arrangement and our friendship.

_This archivist is unsure what the letter writer means with "still on earth" but assume that the writer is wondering if his correspondent has died. But apparently the letter writer's friends are certain the correspondent is still alive?_

**Letter 4**

_This letter sports a shaky handwriting and yet again wine stains, indicating a level of intoxication during writing. It reveals further connection to "C", "My dearest love" was not used in friendly terms in the Victorian era, thus indicating a romantic relationship. The letter has a black border, indicating mourning as common in the time when sending messages in a time period of mourning._

My dearest love, C.

I am losing my stride and my hope. I know you're still on earth, my brother and sister  
would not lie to me, not about this.

We have gone hundreds of years without meeting before, but lately our meetings   
have been more frequent, and I find myself wondering what happened to change that.  
  
Have you lost interest? Has your nature won out? Has Hell reclaimed their agent on earth?

I spend my nights fretting and wondering.

But ultimately, I have come to a conclusion, it may be wrong, and I dearly hope it is.

But my conclusion is thus: You do not want to see me or know me, you do not wish to  
endanger yourself by continuing our acquaintanceship. You do not want to hear from me  
or speak with me again. It is a sorrowful and hurtful conclusion.

I remember our time together, and I find myself analyzing what could have happened,  
I don't believe for a second that you're doing this without reason, that's not like you.  
But then again, leaving like this is not like you either, so I find myself wondering, did  
I ever know you at all?

_What the writer means with having gone hundreds of years without meeting is a matter of speculation among the archivists in this institution, the writer is obviously using hyperbole to indicate a significant amount of time between meetings. What the writer means with "Has your nature won out?" has been a head-scratcher, perhaps "C" was raised to resent the "A.Z Fell", but ultimately decided not to, but now has gone back to their roots? The question about the correspondent being Hell's agent on earth is at first glance equally as confounding, there's no documents in this institution which references the same use of language in correlation with something else, thus we do not know what the writer means. But it might be as simple as the writer's opinion of perhaps a forbidden element in the relationship with "C"._

**Letter 5**

_More references to the elements of A.Z Fell's relationship with "C". And some very odd descriptions of "C" themselves._

My dear C.

I can't stop thinking about you, I can't stop wondering, and I can't stop writing.

Your absence is most peculiar and I ask myself each and every day what could have  
brought this on, I wonder what I did, because surely it must be my fault.

I wanted to tell you face to face, but I can't hold my feelings secret any longer.

I love you.

No matter what this absence means, I will not keep that a secret anymore.

I love you.

I love your serpentine eyes, I love your kindness in spite of your demonic nature.  
I love your swagger and your confidence, however faked it sometimes is, I love your  
taste in wine and fine dining, even though you never eat. I love your choice of attire  
and your way with language.  
I love to hear your stories, and I long to tell you mine, because I love how it brings a  
hard won smile on your lips.  
I love how you try to justify your "misdeeds", how you try to convince me they're  
evil, despite being a nuisance at worst, at least these days.

  
For thousands of years we've known each other, and I do know you, not all of you,  
not as much as I'd like. But I know you would never do this to me without reason.

And most of all, I know you love me too.  
You're not good at keeping secrets.

If I must live forever, I'd much like to have you to live forever with. But you're not here,  
and I am lonely, I miss you terribly and wish with all my heart that you will come back  
to me. I will not pray for you, I can't take that chance, and I would never hurt you that  
way, and I will try to never hurt you otherwise.

But I must have done something, I simply must.   
And I regret how angry or sad you might be. I've been selfish, focusing on my feelings  
during this time, never once considering yours. 

Please, my love, return to me.

_Alright, I don't even know where to start, Mike said it's just hyperbole again. "For thousands of years we've known each other"? What's that about? Must indicate what seems to A.Z Fell to be a long time. And the writer describing "C" as having "serpentine eyes" and "demonic nature"? Excuse my language, but what the fuck? Alright, Mike says that A.Z Fell must have been high, or some kind of druggie, but I don't know, it all just seems weird and weirdly genuine. I don't think someone under the influence of drugs would write such an eloquent love letter, or know so many words. The drug of choice with the bourgeois at the time would be Opium, but there are no traces of opium on any of the letters we have, or on the cover of this journal. The never eating part on behalf of "C" must indicate an eating disorder, which was common with the lower class women of the time, since they would often feed their children before they fed themselves, or maybe "C" was sick with something that caused loss of appetite?_

_And about the "misdeeds", it makes me wonder what "C" did for a living, if she would endanger herself with bad behavior and risk being lectured. The "Live forever" part is easy to explain though, human life was and is our concept of forever when using it in relation to others. Married people often say they'll be together forever, and really mean "until death do us apart". But with the other content of this letter, it's puzzling. Mike stands by his opinion of A.Z Fell being under the influence of some questionable drugs._

_I will write a more official sounding index-card when I get back to work tomorrow, I need time to ponder this and word it differently, it's just weird trying to explain what the hell A.Z Fell was on about._


End file.
